


Le vent nous portera

by rokklagio



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Modern AU, tattoos AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-17 15:52:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1393519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rokklagio/pseuds/rokklagio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you asked Grantaire how long did it take him to reach his workplace from his apartment, he would reply that it depended on how much scotch was left from the night before. </p><p>Set in Marseille. Grantaire is a tattoo artist with no tattoos, Feuilly finds himself in the midst of his own revolution, Enjolras is the one holding his fist in the air.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story comes straight from some mental ramblings I had when it came to tattoos and les Amis.  
> The story is set in Marseille, 21st century.

 

*

 

If you asked Grantaire how long did it take him to reach his workplace from his apartment (which was nothing more than a honest studio flat), considered he regularly woke up not earlier than 11 am every single morning, he would reply that it depended on how much scotch was left from the night before.  
  
If there was none, than it'd take him enough time to take a shower, drink some coffee and descend the stairs that got him straight to the little tattoo parlour on rue Rambuteau, where he worked till 9 pm, when he wasn't behind with his appointments and commissions.

It was on a proper crowded street, he'd give you that, with tons of people walking down the road everyday and glancing every now and then at the shop's windows, with that curiousity that lighted up the eyes but the skeptical wariness that made them inspect further the tattoo artist inside who had no visible tattoos on his skin.

  
And yet there was a loud statement in their non-existence: Grantaire didn't like tattoos.

  
He loved doing them on others, he loved seeing other people marked by his own hand, showing their skin to each other with proud, ecstatic voices. It made him feel powerful.

And even though he spent the last 6 years with a needle in his hands producing the weirdest requests on the weirdest bodies, he would have said that he wouldn't have bothered to stick something on his body permanently, whereas he knew that he was just aware of his own fickleness. Once he'd gotten a tattoo, he would scrape it off the day after.

What would he write anyway?

The word _brêle_ was the only thing that came up on his mind.

 

 

 

"What the fuck does a _peony_ look like anyway?"

"It looks like a damn peony, R. Do your research."

Grantaire groaned and typed 'peony' on google search.

The shop wasn't always this quiet during lunch time: he could barely eat a sandwich between an appointment and the other as the little, worn-out leather couch was always crowded with pensive students, eccentric musicians and chatty bikers.

A young man with wild strawberry hair and skinny, colourful forearms was seated beside Grantaire behind the counter. His fruity scent made him think of the awful, short summer he had no time to enjoy because he had been stuck working for the whole time, while his companion had visibly enjoyed Marseilles' seaside, as his skin showed a honey shade all along his arms.

"That's a peony," he announced with a pointed finger to what looked like a weird, fat rose to Grantaire.

"Ok, I got it Jehan, get your finger off the screen now."

Jehan -- or Jean Prouvaire as his ID card stated when Grantaire checked it the first time the boy popped up in his shop-- was actually a Languages and Literature major and not a classmate of Gavroche, as he assumed when the young man asked for a Goethe poem to be tattooed on his back, three years before.

Since then there had been sixteen tattoos, and they were in the midst of planning the 17th.

He leant his back against the rickety chair and snorted. What Jehan had in mind wasn't huge, but he had to put a lot of work on the details, and he leered at the flowers images with a troubled expression on his (mostly unshaved) face.

"I hate designing flowers, you know that," he groaned.

That didn't seem to dishearten Jehan, who only smiled wider. It was a beautiful, sunny morning and Grantaire shivered at the thought of stepping outside (he hated sunny days, thank you very much) but it made Jehan's hair shine brightly nonetheless. His whole being was a ray of sunshine.

"But you did a marvelous job with my daisies, last time!"

"Yeah, because I was trying not to think about _where_ I was tattooing them."

Jehan smirked. "well, it's my shoulder this time, so you don't have to worry."

Grantaire nodded, defeated. He turned around to check his calendar. It wasn't the best place where to sign all the appointments, but he worked on most of them, so he usually signed only the name of the client and the time and he would just rely on his memory for the rest.

"Mh. November is full, I think we need to move it to December."

Jehan's smile fell. "This far?"

He shrugged. "Sorry. Montparnasse has another two months left in jail and Feuilly probably didn't think it further when he decided he could manage two jobs. He's trying to get his shift changed, so..."

He wasn't angry with Feuilly though: it's not like he worked solely for his delight, he had a rent to pay. And so did Grantaire – he couldn't deny anyone an appointment and so he had to do everything on his own. He was specialized in more than just a style-- he had to specialize on more than one style, or else he was going to shut down the tattoo parlour.

"I'd love a whole bottle of vodka right now," he growled as he wrote Jehan's name on the 13th of December and tried to ignore the thousands of names that loomed before him. He hoped Feuilly managed to change his shift so he could have taken at least all the morning appointments. He could have taken another tattoo artist in, but he didn't have the money to pay a professional. He couldn't bear to see an amateur walk into his shop, so he decided to take all the work on his hands until he physically collapsed somewhere out there.

Two girls entered the shop and waved him hello, and that was the cue for Jehan to go.

"Ok, I'll go or you won't get anything done here. I'll see you tonight?"

Grantaire waved a hand back towards the girls and squinted at Jehan.

"What's tonight?"

"Are you kidding me? Is it only me who Courfeyrac is pestering about tonight?"

Then Grantaire remembered. How could he have forgotten the hours their friend spent scaring or fueling up his clients with talks of unruly anarchy?

"Tell him I can't make it," he stood up and motioned the girls to come forward, trying to ignore Jehan's watery, puppy eyes.

"Feuilly will make it, you should be able too," he tried one last time, but Grantaire was already escorting one of the girls to the back of the shop.

"Bye Jehan."

 

 

That night he closed his shop as the clock was striking 9, walked to the Carrefour to buy some beers and then headed back home. He made himself a quick sandwich and turned on his old laptop so he could watch at least an episode of The Walking Dead, as he didn't have a tv and couldn't care less (see also: afford) to own one. His phone screen lighted up once or twice, but then Jehan must have given up, because it remained silent until Grantaire had fallen asleep on the couch, with the computer still running on his lap and the floor scattered with empty beer cans.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

When Grantaire lifted his eyes from a weird amount of olive, pale, freckled and dark skin the clock flashed a faint, red 20.49 against the wall.

"Shit, it's definitely late," he heard the guy saying as he hastily grabbed his jacket and moved to the counter. It was his last client for the day.

"Careful with that," Grantaire nodded to the guy's forearm, precariously wrapped in transparent film.

"Yeah, sorry. How much was it?" the guy bent to search for his wallet, showing a prominent baldness that made his dark skin glow under the light. When he realized he was somewhat hypnotized by the guy's bald head, Grantaire decided he definitely needed to get home as soon as possible and get some sleep.

He glanced at the tattoo: it wasn't much, a green four-leaf clover right under his wrist. The guy handed him a 200 euros note (Grantaire looked at it with huge eyes, he'd never seen one) but then spent the following 20 minutes looking for change. The guy had arrived half an hour late, his pain tolerance was extremely low, he almost fainted twice, and now it seemed he was running late for something. Grantaire smiled to himself, realizing there were people who had it worse than him in life.

Then it happened what Grantaire feared the most: the door opened as there were five minutes left to 9.

"We are closing," he answered straight away, before realizing that the tall, lanky guy standing there was Courfeyrac.

"Hey Bossuet! Watcha doing here?" he walked in and whistled as Grantaire's latest client showed him the freshlty made tattoo, "it looks great. Did you tell Joly?"

The guy (was it Bossuet?) pulled down his sleeve. "Not yet. You know how he feels about needles."

"I know how he feels about needles on _him_ , I think he will love it. Grantaire's great at his work," he promptly flashed a malicious grin to his friend, "even though he's a proper shithead."

"Are you still angry about tuesday night? Who the fuck plans these things on tuesdays and thursdays? Are you a bloody Yoga course?"

"But Jehan came. God, even Bahorel managed to come before he went to see the match. And Bossuet here," he gave him a strong pat on his back, making the poor guy fall almost all over Grantaire, "I met him at Le Musain."

"I feel sorry for him."

"And we have the same Commercial Law classes!"

" _Now_ I feel sorry for him."

"You're still a shithead though."

"Tell me something I don't know." He grabbed his bag and made sure he had his keys on him, "I'm grabbing some pizza. You're both welcome to join, 'cause I'm done here. Thank god it's not Thursday."

Courfeyrac walked past him. "Yet."

 

*

 

 

Needless to say Grantaire successfully managed to avoid any type of anarchists gathering Courfeyrac and Jehan wanted him to take part in by scheduling some appointments even at 10 pm every Tuesday and Thursday. That way he could cut off some work, but it eventually resulted in him falling asleep on his sketch notes while working on a design. Feuilly changed his morning shift so he could open the shop at a reasonable hour and doing the cover-ups Grantaire had no time to do. That probably pleased a large amount of clients as Feuilly, with his down-to-heart attitude and his fire-red quiff, was the most loved out of the three: Montparnasse was undeniably good looking but wasn't even willing to do some small-talk, and Grantaire... well, who trusted a grouchy tattoo artist with no tattoos?

December rolled in and Marseilles was bathed in sunlight, but the cold and the strong wind blowing from the sea forced Grantaire to wrap his face in a scarf (he didn't even own a scarf, it was Jehan's, as if the bright, awful colours didn't give it away already) and his black nest of a head in a large beanie.

One of those mornings he woke up early to buy some hygienic supplies for the shop, got stuck in the marseillan traffic for almost an hour and a half and, when he got to the studio, he found Feuilly chatting amiably with Jehan from across the counter.

"Look who showed up, at last."

Grantaire threw the plastic bag on the table and stripped off his jacket.

Jehan sighed. "Didn't I tell you already he doesn't believe in mobile phones?"

"I've bought the bloody detergent for the sink," he eyed Jehan, who was wearing a long, bright purple skirt on his black skinny jeans, "what are you doing here anyway? Your appointment is next week."

He winked. "I know, I've come to see if there were any updates."

"There aren't. I'm sending you a message when the design it's done," he answered as he bent down to plug in his charger in the socket right under the counter, so he didn't have to hear Jehan complain anymore.

The boy snorted. "Do you even have any credit on your phone?"

"Ok, I'm going to send you a message on facebook," Grantaire sat down in front of the computer to make sure he actually had Jehan on Facebook, but a red plastic folder was resting on the keyboard.

"What's this?"

"It's Eponine's portfolio," Feuilly answered, "she was interested in taking over Montparnasse's place."

Grantaire rolled his eyes.

"She's in high school. You could have asked his 7-year-old brother, now that you were at it."

The red-head stubbornly crossed his arms and tried to catch Grantaire's eyes.

"She graduated in June, Gavroche is twelve and she's actually good. There are also two course certificates. Why don't you give her a chance?"

"I'm not taking trainees, Feuilly."

"So are you going to keep up with this ridiculous schedule? Until you stab a client right in the back with the machine because you fell asleep on them?"

Grantaire started tapping on the table, pensive. It was a very likely image to happen, and he envisioned the scene with a very angry Bahorel who wouldn't have really minded the whole machine stuck on his back as much as the fact that it meant Grantaire messed up the massive dragon tattoo they've been working on for the past week. He imagined himself next with his face smashed against the sink and he wondered how much uglier he looked with no teeth.

He stood up and pointed him with his index finger.

"You know what? Let Eponine join. Tell her the apprenticeship is not remunerated. And you have to train her. Not me. You."

Feuilly looked at him wide-eyed. "What? Grantaire, I have two jobs-"

Jehan's bright laughter cut him off instantly.

"Oh, drop the act already. As if you didn't strive for this moment to happen." replied the boy with a smirk. Grantaire promptly raised an eyebrow at that.

"What? You want to bone Eponine? Jesus wait until she's at least eighteen, you sick fuck."

At this point the poor man's face was so red, it resembled the plastic folder he clutched in his hands.

"She IS eighteen, R. Oh my god, why are we even talk about this? I'm going out for a smoke."

Grantaire made to stand up, "that's a wonderful ide-" he started, but Feuilly's pointed finger blocked him on his feet.

"No, buy your fucking cigs for once," he growled before grabbing his coat and slam the door behind his back. Jehan shot him a questioning look, but Grantaire was already

taking out some sketches he was working on and spread them on the counter, hoping that Feuilly's embarassment would boil out eventually. "Do you think he's angry?"

Jehan sat on the table and shrugged. "Well, I think you hit some nerves."

Grantaire couldn't help but snort, amused. "And you didn't?"

The boy rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Oh! Would you look at that!" he theatrically peeked over his head and Grantaire followed his gaze, ending on the calendar hanging on the wall.

"Yeah, I know. Your appointment is next week. I don't have Alzheimer, Jehan."

"I think you should look a row higher. Wait, I'll do it for you – today it's a Thursday!"

"No."

"I think it's a pretty indisputable fact, 'Taire. I don't decide the weekdays."

Grantaire dropped his papers, exhausted.

"Why don't you go pester Feuilly about this? He goes to rallies. _Sober_. Like, he actually believes in what he's saying. He works two different jobs and hasn't died yet because he will probably die starving anyway. That man would give Marx a proper boner."

"Not everyone needs demonstrations as an excuse to smoke, and if you went to these meetings at least once, you'd understand. Some guys are literally nuts, but their ideas are actually good."

He went back to his sketches, deciding that some of them were clean enough to pass for final drafts.

"That's why you should take Feuilly to these things. He would have so much fun."

"Who do you think introduced us to Enjolras? I didn't even think that other people knew about Feuilly's factory getting shut down in the next weeks and there they were."

"Wait, what?"

"Jesus Christ, Grantaire. You work with the guy!"

 

"I had no idea!" he glanced outside and spotted Feuilly's red head hanging low, hastily dragging out the smoke, "Eponine's got nothing to do with his stiffness, then."

Jehan shrugged. "I guess not. Listen, you always say that people love to complain but would never do anything to change things. These guys have great ideas-"

"Your idea of 'great' usually means 'fucking insane'. Last time something was," he raised both his fingers and his voice, "' _fucking cool_ ' we were in the middle of a Front National demonstration."

"It was two years ago."

"Yeah and you were wearing a fucking rainbow t-shirt, and-well," he pointed at his large NOFX red t-shirt, "I don't look like I belong to Front National."

"Well that's something we both agree on. Ok, I get it. You don't want to come because they're exactly like you- only they actually do what they say."

"I say _le Parlement_ should burn to the ground. No exceptions. Will that change anything? No. Am I going to do it? No, obviously."

He paused for a couple seconds on his drawings, then raised his eyes on Jehan.

"Are they going to burn down the Parliament?"

"No listen, they're not some high-schoolers fueled by some Anti-Flag song, they're educated."

"I am, too. I may be just a tattoo artist, but I know the constitution by heart. Do you want to see my NPA card?"

"No, thank you."

A faint scent of cigarettes made the both of them turn around, but Feuilly was already off to prepare his machine in the other room.

 

 

 

That night he went out drinking with Bahorel and Feuilly around La Plaine, trying to get his mind off the amount of work he was stuck in until April, but that hasn't been a smart choice. As they walked from bar to bar, his friends would indulge in some ridiculously heated discussion over politics, leaving Grantaire free to let his eyes wander on the girls hanging out in groups in the streets. 

"I don't get what use a hunger strike would do to your cause, honestly."

Bahorel was slightly swaying on his feet, but it was more from the fact that he had a horrible posture when he walked, more than the fact that he had four beers already. Feuilly walked with him at his pace, leaving Grantaire some feet ahead of them.

"We don't exactly own television networks, so that's the only way we have to bring the attention on us," the red-head explained as he took a sip from his beer.

"You could occupy the factory, y'know. Barricade yourself when the police will appear."

"Bahorel's right."

Grantaire stopped ignoring them when he winked at the tallest girl of the group beside them, gaining only a eye-roll back, so he decided to join their discussion.

"It will make no difference because the cops are going to get inside anyway and you all will get arrested and everybody will forget about your fight in about two weeks, but that'd be a fun experience. Reminds of my high school times."

Bahorel sneered at Grantaire.

"We know you want Feuilly for yourself so he can tattoo flowers and kids' faces in your place," he turned back to their friend, who looked a bit disheartened by the whole conversation, "but my plan is not that bad. Enjolras agrees with me."

Grantaire was starting to feel fidgety. Cheap beers weren't good to get drunk as fast as possible, but drinks were massively expensive in that district and wine was good only if he was with Jehan in his apartment.

"Who the fuck is this Enjolras anyway?" he snapped at some point as they finally reached the Corniche.

Bahorel roared in laughter and Feuilly started playing with his quiff.

 

"Jehan says that he is the embodiment of your thoughts," the ginger eventually answered, but the silent noises of the river were too hypnotizing to interrupt.

 

 

*

 

 

On monday he almost overdosed on painkillers (it'd been Claquesous' birthday the night before and he was drunk enough to do some coke with Babet and at some point Brujon's dog started barking and didn't stop for the rest of the night) but he got downstairs around 11 am and started working on Jehan's tattoo as Feuilly worked in the back room with the clients. The sunny days seemed to be over and Marseille was all wrapped up by a plain gray sky, and Grantaire couldn't have been more glad. Did he mention that he hates sunny days?

He knew he had huge, red eyebags so he didn't even try to raise his eyes to exchange looks with their clients, since he was sure he would have scared them straight away.

"Flowers are so damn hard to draw," he muttered under his breath as he tried to keep the right proportions and added details. Jehan's shoulder was too bony to get it right. It was going to turn out a mess.

' _Maybe I should call him and tell him that it'd look nicer if we I did it smaller, maybe on his calf?_ ' he glanced over his phone, so engrossed in his thoughts he didn't realize that someone walked inside the shop.

"Hey, is Feuilly here?"

He forgot for once how wasted his face looked and instantly raised his eyes.

 

He swore he didn't see the faintest light in the sky outside, but the sun was shining right there. Indoors.

 

The firm voice belonged to a tall, young man with unruly golden curls and a stern, chiseled face. His sides were razor shaved and his eyebrows were dark and impossibly sharp, revealing a pair of glacial eyes underneath. He felt like he was ready to burn down his shop and stab a knife through his head. It felt like it'd be to be struck by lightning.

He was taller than Grantaire and had a mature voice, but his cheekbones and his rosy lips made it clear that he couldn't be any older than Grantaire himself- if any, he was probably much younger.

" _Hé là, Enjolras_!"

Feuilly threw away his gloves and went to hug what seemed to be the famous Enjolras, something that Grantaire admitted he didn't expect to see. He friendly squeezed Feuilly's shoulder and Grantaire could see that both his neck and his hands were mostly inked.

"We're meeting tonight with a friend of Combeferre's. He works as a freelance writer for two local newspapers and is willing to report your cause. It may not be worthy of national coverage but it's still something, and Combeferre is confident that whatever happens within the Provence region doesn't take too much to make it to the main news anyway."

The boy's eyes were shining as he spoke, undoubtely affecting Feuilly's mood in the best way possible.

"This is great!"

"Yeah, it's something. However, if it won't be enough, I know Combeferre and Jehan are ready to disagree with me on this, but the hunger strike will be useless and damaging for you and your co-workers."

_and throwing yourself at the cops isn't?_

"Can you not talk about your subversive political plans in my shop? Thank you."

Enjolras glared at him. There was loud annoyance in his stunning, terrible eyes, and now Grantaire wondered how old the guy really was.

"It's not politics. Would you buy a product that claims to be completely french made, making you pay the cost required by original french manufacture, only to discover that it's being made by underpaid workers in Poland?"

"I like Poland," quietly said Feuilly.

Grantaire crossed his arms.

"Then why don't you go and fight for the polish workers? Tell them to demand an equal pay as their french colleagues."

The blonde squinted at him.

"That doesn't make any sense. It's about the money value, not their actual salary."

"He knows", Feuilly shook his head, "he's just shitting you."

Enjolras shot him a disdainful glare and turned back to Feuilly, as if Grantaire was only an annoying fly.

"Anyway, if you want to come tonight we'll be at Le Musain. We'll give it a week, then we are going to help you occupy your workplace and make sure the cops won't get a chance to harm any of you."

Grantaire raised both eyebrows. He thought it was one of Bahorel's weird, hot-tempered ideas but that guy, Enjolras, looked absolutely serious as he suggested to illegally occupy a building. He checked Feuilly's face, expecting to see a petrified, shocked face, but his eyes were as resolute as ever.

 

"Thank you, Enjolras."

 

 

 

That night Grantaire closed the shop and walked straight to his apartment. He didn't stop to buy alcohol as he still had a bottle of cheap wine in the broken cupboard over the kitchen sink and frozen quesadillas to consume before the expiring date (that Wednesday).

He sat on the couch, eating is burnt quesadillas and sipping a wine that tasted like plastic caps and for a couple seconds he felt infinitely sad.

He didn't bother to do the dishes and left the empty bottle on the ground before he drifted off to sleep.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So! Some notes before you start reading: the first section of the chapter is from Grantaire's POV (like the last one) but the rest is from Jehan's. I'm introducing another side of the story, which it's not necessarily shipping or anything similar. Just working on something.

 

 

The day after he walked in the back room and was greeted by Eponine, who was working with Feuilly on some pig skin. As he went to hang his coat on the wall he stopped to peek over her shoulder pretending to examine Eponine's work, whereas he was pleasantly impressed that the girl had such a firm hand. The shading wasn't really good, but he preferred not giving out his opinions. Also, he didn't want to ruin one of Feuilly's best moments.

"I'll be there working on this fucking peony," he informed them as he walked out of the room. He heard some humming on the other part and took it as a cue to start working, so he sat down and turned on the shop's (ancient) computer.

"Ah! Bahorel had to cancel his Friday appointment, so I moved him to 8 pm tonight. Is that okay?" he heard Feuilly yell behind.

"Why did he move it?" he yelled back, realizing he was likely get out of the shop past nine.

"We were talking about it yesterday. If the article doesn't get enough coverage within this week, we're going to take over the whole building. And if we have to hold on, we can't leave the building. So he wished to have his tattoo completed before next week."

He took advantage of Feuilly's absence to roll his eyes and groan in silence. He couldn't fathom the idea of his friends fighting cops from the roof of a building. He crossed out Bahorel's name on the calendar and sighed as he scanned with his eyes every other name over Bahorel's appointment.

There was no point in denying that Enjolras affected his work too, at this stage.

 

 

*

 

As Grantaire finished to wrap the film around Jehan's scrawny arm the sun had almost set completely. The tattoo was absolutely beautiful, the smaller boy observed as he showed it to the mirror, even though it was impossibly swollen.

"It looks amazing," Jehan commented with a bright, satisfied grin on his face. He admired the lilac petals carved in his skin, where the cold colour was shading into a warmer red- his own blood. It hurt, of course, it hurt so much that at some point he considered to stop Grantaire and tell him to leave it blank like that, but he bit the bullet and two hours and a half later he was staring adoringly at that colourful piece of work.

"Yeah, whatever." Grantaire put the needle away and washed his hands in the little sink beside his workspace. He never seemed satisfied enough of his work though: sometimes he never looked at his freshly made tattoos twice. Jehan didn't really mind, he had eyes and what he found on his shoulder was a beautifully drawn peony that gracefully vanished into his old, just as colourful tattoos. The oldest was the one on his back: the Song of the Spirits over Waters by Goethe: it was his first tattoo ever, and he was glad he chose Grantaire to do it. He still remembered his friend's expression when he first walked in the shop and voiced his request. He was younger and impetuous then: he wanted his first tattoo to be written all over his back, in his own handwriting. He didn't know Grantaire so he didn't expect his idea to be rejected straight away: he didn't expect to get told that it was going to look horrible and that his handwriting sucked. Jehan argued that he didn't really care, and the grouchy young man at the other side of the counter asked him if he valued his own body that little. The remark infuriated him, but his feet were stuck to the ground and he watched as Grantaire walked beside him and circled his shoulderblades lightly, suggesting to do it smaller. He picked up a piece of paper and scribbled down the german words on it, he showed it to Jehan and placed it on his back, right under the nape of his neck. He remembered he caught the piece of paper in his hand and observed the handwriting on it: it was full of spontaneous swirls and harsh angles, and everything seemed to click into place.

His back was a german ode to the spirits, and it was written by the bitter tattooist at the end of rue Rambuteau.

 

"It's almost 8 pm. You're not closing?" Jehan asked as he picked his hemp bag from the ground and noticed that they were the only ones left in the shop (not that it bothered him though).

"I'm waiting for Bahorel. We're finishing his tattoo today," Grantaire answered, but he sounded thoughtful doing so. "It's dark. Are you okay getting home alone?"

Jehan rolled his eyes. Yes, his apartment was far from Grantaire's shop, but it's not like he lived down La Castellane.

"Don't worry, Courf is picking me up."

Grantaire raised his eyebrows dramatically both at once.

"Oh. Courf is picking you up."

The boy tucked his hair behind his ear and nodded. His hair was thin and easy to escape from the multiple pins he put on his head to keep it in place (and vainly so). Feuilly once suggested to cut it (he found long hair little practical) but Jehan wouldn't hear any of it.

He hoped that Grantaire would leave it like that, but he continued.

"What about poor old Lucas? What happened to him?" he asked with fake concern. As if there was something he was seriously concerned about.

"Lucas?" Jehan crossed his arms, feeling the tattoo pulling at his scarred skin, "from my English class? What about him?"

The other man picked up a pack of cigarettes and followed him to the door. When they were right outside the shop, Grantaire leant against the window and put one cigarette between his pale lips, "weren't you two going out? Did I miss something?" he began asking as he lighted it up.

Jehan shrugged. "Yeah, and we kind of broke up. So?"

"You 'kind of broke up' when? Why am I always the last one to know anything here?" he offered the cigarette to Jehan, but he promptly shook his head. He only smoked weed anyway.

"Because it wasn't anything of too much importance? We weren't dating," he answered, laughing.

"But he was sleeping at your place like... every day? I think he made me breakfast once."

"He was taking cooking lessons. I don't think he needed them though."

"Whatever, you'd eat anything anyway."

He couldn't help but nod, and that gave Grantaire's the idea to start to reminisce all of his friend's past lovers, which didn't bother Jehan. Although some of his relationships didn't end in very good terms, he cherished each one of them equally. He thought it was his natural appreciation of human beings and their own intricacy that made him see reason over feelings, but Grantaire seemed to have other ideas on the matter.

"I mean, I remember that guy, with the mole here," he waved a hand over his face, trying to faintly locate the place, "what was his name? Jean-Luc? Marc?"

Jehan narrowed his eyes on Grantaire's vague gestures and tried to remember.

"Patrick?"

"Yeah! Patrick. He was so disgustingly in love with you. I remember when he brought you flowers at my shop. He'd take you anywhere- I think he proposed to you at some point."

"Yeah, and that's why I dumped him. I mean, it was a lovely thought – spending our entire lives with each other and all – but I'm still in my early twenties. When I'll start getting myself cats then it will be my cue to start worrying."

His last words went almost unheard as an approaching rumble from the street made them both turn around.

Courfeyrac was on his green vespa, his helmet loosely placed on his curly head and his incredibly long legs comically showing out as they were bent in two perfect angles, as if his vehicle had two bony wings altogether.

"Speak of the devil..." began Grantaire as he lowered the cigarette and nodded to their friend, who took off his helmet and started wiggling it around.

"Were you talking about me? Nice things I suppose."

The tattooist nodded. "Yeah, we were agreeing on the fact that when someone gets more than one cat, they have to worry for their love life."

Courfeyrac looked outraged. "My apartment is a foster home. What did you do to make this world a better place?"

"Put plastic in the plastic litter," he took a last drag and then stepped on the cigarette's butt, "let's get inside, I'm fucking freezing. If Bahorel doesn't show up in ten minutes I'm going home."

"There's some heavy traffic down the city centre," Courfeyrac explained, "but Jehan and I need to go. It's closing time and we have to buy some stuff first."

He lifted the seat of the vespa and offered another helmet to Jehan, which the boy picked and promptly fastened around his head, trying not to get his long hair in the way.

Courfeyrac's answer made Grantaire curious, "What do you have to buy?"

"Mostly alcohol, and not the kind you'd enjoy."

The tattooist raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me it's one of those fanatics' ideas."

"He met Enjolras," Jehan explained.

Courfeyrac laughed. "Come and stop us. You know where to find us," he got on his vespa and motioned Jehan to sit behind. The smaller boy laced his arms around Courfeyrac and turned around to wave Grantaire goodbye. The other man answered with a vague gesture and got back inside. Courfeyrac started avoiding the cars and drove towards the city centre.

 

After a bunch of minutes they reached Noailles and Courfeyrac drove into a little street and pulled aside, so Jehan could get off first and take his helmet off.

Even if it had been a very fast journey, he kind of enjoyed the warmth of Courfeyrac's back against his body, firstly because riding on a motorbike was always a torture to people like Jehan, who loved to spend entire summer days basking under the sun and the first shiver of cold made him hide under ridiculous levels of sweaters, and because the best warmth one could receive was from another being, Jehan reckoned.

As he was indulging in those thoughts, Courfeyrac set his hair free and winked at him. Was he staring?

"As soon as we are done with this you need to show me your new tattoo," he declared, wandering his hazel eyes on the smaller boy's arm.

"You're nuts if you think I'm going to take off all my shirts just to show you my tattoo. It's freezing."

"Then you could show me back at my place," the taller man suggested, but Jehan didn't have time to look shocked because the other man was already inside the shop.

The deal with Courfeyrac was that everyone was subject to these kind of lines, so everyone was used to his flirting by now. What Jehan didn't consider was that Grantaire reminded him that Lucas had been indeed his last, and that was weeks ago.

He walked inside too. The shop was one of those for cleaning supplies, most likely the one where Feuilly and Grantaire bought their stockpiles of disinfectant regularly.

Their plan was mostly a peaceful one - they were going to protest outside Feuilly's workplace and, if they didn't get down to a reasonable agreement with the executives, they were going to occupy the whole building with all the workers and stop any further manufacturing. To keep the building, they had to build something to defend themselves against the police. This was a point on which they all argued for a very long time, as Enjolras was absolutely resolute on using arms. Combeferre was too, except that had to use them only if they were going to be attacked first. Bahorel thought that a peaceful protest was just a waste of time (he was absolutely enraged by Feuilly's constant state of temporary employment, even though their friend worked since he was fifteen), Joly agreed on bearing weapons to defend themselves, but Bossuet made it clear that they were going to be persecuted if the police found out they were armed beforehand; also, he didn't know he could fabricate a molotov without it exploding in his hands. Jehan found himself strongly agreeing with him. Feuilly, on his part, was fully on Enjolras' side in every issue they discussed on, but that leader with the face of a cherub and the attitude of a general officer made sure to always confront himself with Feuilly first. It was his uprising, after all.

 

They got out the retailer with six litres of alcohol, which they easily purchased with a copy of Grantaire's shop license, which Feuilly gave to Jehan in order to get as many things as possible to hold their barricade.

Grantaire was going to kill all of them.

Luckily enough, Courfeyrac's apartment was just down the street. Jehan was positive his arms were going to fall off, not to mention the pain he felt cutting through his shoulder everytime he flexed his arm in ways he wasn't supposed to.

His friend lived in his grandfather's house, at the ground floor of a very old building in Noailles. His whole family was from there, he once explained to his friends, especially when they found him conversing with people from the market, half in French and half in Arabic.

The apartment had a very high ceiling, like old flats usually have, and a very narrow corridor. The walls were sprinkled with posters, paintings, some of Grantaire's drawings, colourful notes and three guitars were peeping out from Courf's room. When they put the alcohol down in the kitchen, Courfeyrac went to find a good place to store it and Jehan was left alone in the room.

The probably made some noise, because a door opened and a lanky guy with freckles over his face and disheveled hair walked out with a baseball bat in his hands.

"Marius, it's us. Courfeyrac and I, Jehan. No burglars. No serial killers" he waved him hello from the kitchen. The boy, relieved, lowered the baseball bat and walked in the kitchen.

"Thank god. I don't know what I was going to do, honestly," he put his weapon on the floor, "do you want some coffee?"

"Yeah, thank you. Didn't you hear us getting inside?"

Marius got on his toes to check the higher cupboards. "Sort of. I had the headset on and after a bunch of minutes I heard someone talking. This area is not exactly safe, so..."

Jehan laughed. "Don't let Courfeyrac hear that. I'm sorry we interrupted you."

The boy tightened the moka and put it on the stove, "It's okay. It's just, you know, got some articles to finish before midnight and this one was full of medical terms I didn't know they existed in French, so..."

Marius was Courfeyrac's flatmate- a cute, young man from Vernon, a quite rich one as once Courfeyrac told him, but he worked as a translator to pay his bills, the food and the rent altogether, so Jehan wasn't really convinced on the rich part. Anyway, he liked Marius a lot. He was the only one interested in his major and they exchanged their opinions on linguistics most frequently.

"What do you think of workers conditions in southern France?" he decided to ask, all of a sudden. Marius opened his mouth, quite surprised, but Courfeyrac came back and cut him off before he could try to answer.

"If you want to know Marius' political ideas, just pick up the encyclopedia and look for 'Ancient Régime'"

The poor boy turned purple, "that's not true!"

"Yeah, right, you're just old-fashioned," he mocked him, before turning around to face Jehan.

"The stuff is safe. I'm gonna call Combeferre and tell him everything's okay. I think the coffee is ready, monsieur Pontmercy."

And then he stormed off once again.

They drank the coffee in silence for the first five minutes, but something was bothering Marius, and Jehan could see it. And feel it. Marius' legs were almost as long as Courfeyrac's and they were nervously humping the table.

"What's the matter?" he eventually asked, putting his cup down and pulling his hair up in a loose bun. Marius was watching him with great hesitation in his blue eyes, but his mouth tried to form words nevertheless.

"There's... there's this girl," he began, and Jehan couldn't help but set his back straight and open his ears. Romantic struggle was his specialty.

"Okay. What about this girl?"

"She... I think you know her. I've seen her around La Castellane."

Jehan rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "I'm not from there, why does everybody think I'm from there?"

He shook his head. "I don't mean that. I think she's a friend of Eponine, but I'm not sure."

"Why don't you ask Eponine? No, wait, don't." He couldn't be the only one who noticed Eponine's massive crush on Courfeyrac's new flatmate. Well, it was more likely that only Marius was unaware of that.

"Why not?" he asked, not surprisingly.

Jehan didn't get a chance to reply because Courfeyrac was once again back in the room, this time with a bright, statisfied smile on his face. It didn't took him much time to understand what was their topic of conversation.

"Was he telling you about Cosette Fauchelevent?"

Marius' eyes went blown wide. "That's her name?!"

"Yes, I asked Eponine myself, since you never thought about doing that."

Jehan narrowed his eyes on him. "I hope you didn't say that it was for Marius though."

"Well, of course I did. I don't wish to become an aim for père Fauchelevent's fist."

Marius didn't know who mister Fauchelevent was, so he had no idea why Courfeyrac was so amused by the whole matter.

Père Fauchelevent was the owner of one of the most famous restaurants in Marseille, _La Madeleine_ , right next to Notre Dame de La Garde. His first courses and his desserts were very popular among the citizens, and his pizza was incredibly good. But what outdid the dishes' popularity, was the owner himself: he was this huge, strong man from Paris, with grey-speckled curls and a grave look that didn't fail the rumours on a dark past that suggested he had spent in prison. However, he was also a very popular benefactor and mostly everyone in Marseille admired him. His only daughter was Cosette, who Courfeyrac and Grantaire knew because she used to be in the same foster house as Eponine, and all of them attended primary and middle school together, but she went to the same private high school as Jehan and he also learned to fear père Fauchelevent, like every clever man should.

Cosette's name seemed to be good enough for Marius, because he smiled and announced he was going back to his work, whereas both Jehan and Courfeyrac were positive he was going to track her down on facebook.

As the boy closed his door, he found Courfeyrac staring.

"What?"

"I want to see your tattoo! I didn't endure Grantaire's complains for nothing, show me this peony."

Jehan laughed, but Courfeyrac's straightforwardness made him a little nervous, if not excited. He took off his sweater, unbuttoned his shirt and took a sleeve off to reveal the arm wrapped in film, the tattoo fresh, swollen but beautifully coloured underneath.

Courfeyrac stood up and lounged a hand forward, so he could touch it through the film. He didn't know whether it was the coffee or not, but his heartbeats speeded up as soon as Courfeyrac's fingers were scanning his skin, and he gathered all his strenght not to show his nervousness, but he felt his dick stir in his pants anyway and backed up.

It's been _too_ long, he tried to reassure himself. _Calm down_.

Courfeyrac didn't seem to notice though, "Grantaire did an amazing job, although he loathes tattooing flowers," he admitted.

"Duh." bit Jehan back, as he buttoned up his shirt and put his sweater on. In the meanwhile Courfeyrac went to check on his fridge, see if there was something to eat.

"I think it's an amazing day to order some pizza from père Fauchelevent, don't you think?" he suggested after some minutes, making Jehan roll his eyes to the ceiling.

"Don't torture the boy. Any pizza place is fine."

 

 

 

*

 

 

They spent the evening watching a couple of horror movies on Courfeyrac's bed, all three of them eating Fauchelevent's pizza while discussing over the movie. They were too focused on trying to point out all the actors in it and didn't follow the plot much.

When the credits of the last movie were rolling out on the laptop's screen, Marius went to his own room, exhausted. Courfeyrac, on the contrary, seemed quite energic and wanted to go out even though it was already midnight, but Jehan was strongly against that idea- he could hear the wind blowing outside and that meant only more cold to endure.

 

In the end they settled for a spliff (make it two) and L.A. Woman softly playing from Courf's laptop. His three cats were also there, since it was way too cold outside for a midnight stroll, and they were sleepy and high enough to spend the night on the bed, watching the cats picking up fights with each other.

Courfeyrac, in fact, was particularly focused on that.

"I think Zara is trying to kill Benji, but I'm not sure," he finally declared, one hand on his mouth and the other shuffling on his iTunes library.

Jehan took off his eyes from the cats and raised an eyebrow at Courfeyrac.

"You named her after a chain store? What's the other one's name, Bershka?"

"That one's Napoléon, something Marius finds offensive and I still have to understand why."

"Yeah, I wonder why."

The silence stretched for another ten minutes, and Jehan was almost falling asleep while he listened to the storm raging outside. But, once he started closing his eyes, Courfeyrac decided to strip off of his clothes.

He was suddenly awake. "What are you doing?"

Courfeyrac threw his sweatshirt on the floor and grinned. "It's too hot in here."

He was sure that it was Courfeyrac's lack of seriousness and weed combined talking, but he couldn't stop himself from sitting a little straighter and look at him with wide eyes.

The other man noticed Jehan's change of expression and didn't fail to deliver a malicious smirk on his part. "Are you okay? I think it's too hot even for you," he lunged forward and grabbed Jehan's sweater, "you should take this off."

Mesmerized, he immediately followed Courfeyrac's advice, taking off both his sweater and his shirt at once. He caught the other boy's grin as he revealed his tanned skin under the desk lamp's dim light, but he couldn't stop his own thoughts. He motioned forward and caught his friend's lips in a kiss, to which the other boy responded most happily, clutching the back of Jehan's head with his hands as he began to lie down on the bed.

Being close like that, Jehan could smell Courfeyrac's clean scent over the smell the smoke left, he could feel the rough fabric of the boy's jeans rub against his exposed belly.

Kissing his friend was something he didn't expect to experience- so he enjoyed every second of it, tracing what he felt in his mouth, licking the teeth and biting on his bottom lip with careful attention.

However, no matter how much effort Jehan put in his own actions, Courfeyrac seemed to be in his own dimension: he didn't hurry their kisses, if anything, he made them pleasing enough to make Jehan go fully hard on him.

His arms were starting to hurt, so Jehan lowered on one side and hoped that Courfeyrac decided to swap places, so he could kiss him comfortably from the bottom. They kept on kissing while lying both on the bed: they licked each other's mouth and exchanged lazy, distract caresses on their hips, in an endless haze.

When Jehan pulled back to to take off his pants in the fastest way possible he know, he turned around to find the back of Courfeyrac's head who had rolled on his side and, with a sleepy voice, simply hummed: "Good night."

 

His first instict was to protest, but after thinking his words over and over he decided to stay silent. Was he that terrible at kissing that Courfeyrac preferred to face the other way and drift off to sleep?

When he was sure that Courfeyrac's soft snore was the only thing heard in the room, he slowly got up from the bed and walked off to the bathroom. He needed at least another twenty minutes before he was able to sleep like that.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I love mixing Proust with mentions of Valjean's old alias :)


End file.
